fwoanfandomcom-20200216-history
Tropical Paradox
For All Nails #39b: Tropical Paradox by Noel Maurer ---- :Ponce, Provincia Autónoma de Porto Rico, Estado Español FN1 :13 July 1968 Lieutenant Ramón Betances was a happy man. He was hot. It was humid. He felt like his entire body was encased in spittle. His ears were ringing. He was thousands of miles away from home, in a country he didn't care about fighting against people he didn't care about for a purpose he could not fathom. But he didn't care. The good side was Rocío. Oh, not because he was in love with her or some such idiocy. No, Rocío was nothing more than a boriqueña, the daughter of some poor jíbaros shoved into one of the "new villages" that the autonomous government had established all over the center of the island. That had been an ugly job, but thankfully Ramón hadn't been part of it. The sex was good, but sex was freely available in this pathetic wreck of a country. No, his relationship with Rocío was a good thing because she had hooked him up with Falcón, who had gotten him the marijuana seeds from the Mexican. Armed with the seeds, it was pretty easy for Betances to explain to resettled jíbaros why cultivating them could be a win-win situation all around -- marijuana was highly popular among Spanish draftees posted to this tropical hell. The Mexican, though, was hooked up with much more than simple mota. Much more. And he could get it for a good price. The endless stream of draftees coming over from Spain provided a ready market. At least they did until the goddamned Puentistas took over in Madrid after the riots. FN2 Now the troops were paid in scrip, putatively redeemable for pesetas in Spain itself -- but only to the registered recipient -- or in goods at the Spanish army's bases. That was very bad for Betances's business. Nobody grew opium in Porto Rico, so he needed hard currency to pay the Mexican. And unless he planned to stay in Porto Rico forever -- which would happen only if his heart stopped first -- he needed something he could spend back in Valencia. Or, better yet, Cuba or the República Cisplatina. FN3 Why go home? Home was like here, only with better weather. And people in the combat zones at home didn't even speak Spanish. FN4 The result was that business was bad and getting worse. Luckily, Falcón had another suggestion. "They pretend to pay you," he had said, over beers in the sordid southern town of Ponce, "Why don't you pretend to fight?" "What do you mean?" Betances had asked. He plonked his beer, awful thick Boricua beer, down on the table. "Exactly what I said." Falcón looked down his beak-like nose at Betances. Betances rolled his eyes. "You're not making any sense." Falcón leaned forward, looking for the all the world like a vulture crouching over fresh carrion. "You fight because the rebels fight you, right?" "Well, yeah. Your point?" "What if you didn't?" Now Falcón had started to smile. It had not been a pleasant sight. "They'd kill me, asshole. Stop dancing around." "Okay." Falcón straightened up in his chair. "I have contacts among the rebels. That is no surprise. What may be a surprise is how much money the rebels have. It certainly was to me. I am suggesting that when on patrol, you not go to certain places. If you encounter resistance, you surrender. If you receive a certain message, you pass false intelligence back to your superiors." Intrigued, Betances leaned forward, his elbows on the table. "My men might not obey orders not to fight." Falcón just cocked an eyebrow. "Okay," said Betances, "The men won't care. Half of them just run away from anything resembling combat anyway. They're just marking time." FN5 "See? Money for nothing. Literally." Falcón looked satisfied. Betances was not. Not yet. "How will I be paid?" Falcón nodded. "Cash. North American pounds. In twice the amount of your net from the dealing." Now it was Betances turn to nod. "How can you resist that?" "It sounds good." "First cash in your hands on Tuesday, where you'd normally make pickup. We'll communicate the same way we do now." Falcón stood up and shook Betances's hand. As always, Betances wondered how such a skinny fellow could grip so hard. "Leave thirty seconds after I do." With no more speaking, Falcón strode out of the bar. FN6 He strode out of the ramshackle bar onto the dirt street. Well, it wasn't dirt, exactly, but so badly paved that you could barely tell the difference. Spanish soldiers in mud-colored fatigues drove by in their German-made lokes. And the walls were covered with the posters bearing Thomas Jefferson's visage and labeled with a single word: "¡Progreso!" Right here in Ponce, the rebels could act with impunity. He snorted and moved on. Jefferson's face and Mercator's slogan, but no, Mexico had nothing to do with the insurgency. Por supuesto. Betances was a block and a half away when the bar exploded. Once he got over the shock, he smiled. He might be here less time than he feared. ---- Forward to #39c (Caribbean): Secretarial Privilege. Forward to 15 September 1968: The Ivory Tower. Return to For All Nails. Category: Caribbean Category:Historical